which this ardent, beautiful young creature
had of it then. The idol of the court, the
most popular lecturer of the city, the Tenth
Muse of all the poets and scholars of her
acquaintance, petted by Duchess Renée, and
the familiar friend of young Anna—herself a
famous scholar—life wore its rosiest colours
to Olympia Morata, and failure, sadness, and
sorrow were things unknown. This brilliant
career lasted some eight years or so, until
Olympia was twenty-two; when the sudden
illness of her father, old Peregrino Morato,
summoned her from her sunshiny existence
at court, and hurried her to a sick room and
poverty instead. But while Olympia was
tending that poverty-haunted sick bed, her
friend, companion, and pupil, the royal lady
Anna d'Este, was being married to Francis
of Lorraine; and when, old Peregrino being
dead, and her sad home-duties at an end, the
Tenth Muse would have retaken her former
position at court, she was met by a blank
refusal, and even the detention of her gala
wardrobe left behind her. The blow nearly
beat her down. She had not only to lament
the death of the tender father whose pride
and darling she had been, but the loss of all
her worldly property, with the sudden burden
of a helpless family flung upon her for their
sole support. A sick mother, three young
sisters, and an infant brother—she must
toil for these now, instead of holding forth in
purest Attic on the graces of Hellenic poetry,
or the charms of the Hellenic gods: she must
exchange her vivats of rapturous applause
for the daily drudgery of domestic life, and
the ignoble fight with the wolf that will
prowl near the door.

While Olympia had been the tenth muse
in courtly robes, a young German student,
one Andreas Grünthler, had dared to love,
but not to woo. Now, when she had fallen
into poverty and disrepute, the love that had
not sought to offer worldly declension, was
bold to proffer protection. Andreas Grünthler
opened his heart, and Olympia did not
disdain the revelation. In fifteen hundred and
fifty she married her Teutonic lover; and
wrote an ode of eight Greek verses on the
occasion. After an absence of some months,
Grünthler returned to Ferrara to take his
wife back with him to Germany and freedom
of thought: and when some friendly visits
were paid, Olympia was settled in a happy,
humble home of her own at Schweinfurth.
Here she discussed theology, wrote Latin letters
to her friends, and refused to learn German;
here she had various household troubles with
her clumsy German maidens; and here she
tasted, for the first time in her life, true and
living happiness. From a Muse she had become
a woman, and had gained incalculably by the
change. But Schweinfurth was besieged in
some quarrel, and soon pestilence broke out
in the city. Grünthler was struck down, and
nothing but such love and watchful care as
Olympia's could have saved him. And then
the town was carried by assault, and the
poor inhabitants had to shelter themselves
as they best could. Andreas and his wife
escaped across the country, she suffering
from tertian fever, and almost naked; and
when they reached Erbach, where the good
Countess of Erbach received them like her
own kindred, she sank into an illness which
every one expected would be her last. She
rallied, however, and for a time seemed even
recovered; but her constitution had received
a shock which was never overcome. They
moved from Erbach to Heidelberg, where
fortune began to smile on them again, in all
but brave and beautiful Olympia's health.
Gently, slowly, and surely the loving wife
and heroic friend sank to the rest that knows
no breaking, saying, "I can scarcely see you,
my loved ones, but all round me there seem
to be beautiful flowers," as she quietly closed
her eyes, and, seeming to fall asleep, died.
She was only in her twenty-ninth year, but
she was held in honour by every learned
man in Europe; and few biographers give
us such a lovely picture of unselfish devotion,
and of womanly tenderness and love, as that
of Olympia Morata. Her husband survived
her only a very short time; and her young
brother Emilio, whom she had taken with
her to Germany to educate, also died soon
after of the plague. Their lives seem to
have been bound up in hers, and when she
went—why should they stay?

Seven years after high-souled Olympia
died, and two years before the birth of
Shakespeare, namely, in fifteen hundred and
sixty-two, was born Isabella Andreini—the
Siddons, the Mars, the Rachel of her time,
and its most noted dramatic author as well.
Padua, her native city, enrolled her as one
of the Intenti Academicians, where her name
was L'Accesa, or the Inflamed One; while
the company to which she and her husband
Francesco belonged—for Francesco was a
comedian as well—was called I Gelosi, or the
Jealous Ones: not a very amiable title, by
the way! Every one was eager to exalt
Isabella. Torquato Tasso wrote a sonnet on
her; Charles Emmanuel, of Savoy, spoke of
her as the Decoro delle Muse and the
Ornamento dei Teatri; Ventura, of Bergamo,
among many other fine things, called her the
absolute queen of Italy, and the padrona of
its princes; and, most singular of all, her
husband held her as high as the rest, and
was neither jealous of her fame as a comedian,
nor of the admiration she excited as a
woman. When she died he was desolate,
and utterly inconsolable; and she died when
only forty-two years old, having carried
safely through a brilliant life, thickly strewn
with temptations, a name unsullied by
slander, and a character unstained by even
levity: which is much to say of a beautiful
Italian actress in the days of the Medici and
the Borgias!

It is a pity as much cannot be said for